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Jan 1, 05 10:53 AM

I Went to Times Square and Took Pictures of the Cops.


And then I went to the annual non-drinkin'/druggin' dance.


It was a hoot. I haven't gone for a number of years--since my friend Kelly Sue got married and moved to Kansas City, in fact--since then, my potential companions for the non-drinkin'/druggin' dance have been hipster boys prone to skulking by the wall. I like to dance like an idiot and, as Bow Wow Wow have said, Go Ape Crazy.

This year, I found a friend to go with --actually, a non-non-drinkin'-druggin' friend, just tired of boozy so-called festivities this year, who was astounded at the depth and breadth of the non-drinkin'-druggin' subculture--how many of us there are, how young we are, and, most pertinently, the ridiculous joy and abandon on the dance floor. Lots of young ex-ravers freaking out in front of the speakers. We danced until we were literally soaking wet.

Benefits included not having to keep an eye open for scary drunk guys; feeling a spray of liquid, one knew that it was water, not beer, getting splashed; girls not having that fuck-you-get-away affect, as no lone scary drunk guys were there to grind on their asses uninvited.

A delicious irony of the non-drinker-druggers is the joy found in drinking-drugging songs--50's "You know I got the X if you're into takin' drugs!"--et al. Wild enthusiasm ensued on the dance floor. Confusing to my dancing partner but made perfect sense to me. I have nothing against drugs--love 'em, in fact--I just don't do 'em anymore.

We left, I walked her up to the L train, we were both completely drenched. I found a $20 bill on the sidewalk, which I plan to give to the first busker I encounter as a merit-making gesture for 2005. I got a slice at Stromboli's on the walk home; a leggy blonde lurched into the pizza place and unsuccessfully tried to get a Diet Coke. "Nobody in this establishment is drunk enough," she said to me.

"You mean," I said, "nobody that's working here is drunk enough?"

"Yes." She smiled crookedly, flirtily; I guess she thought it went without saying that I was as drunk as she was.

I thought: You're absolutely right; as a matter of fact I don't believe that I've ever been drunk enough.

I passed misfortunate girls as I made my way home. One squatting between cars on First Avenue, in a nice dress and heels, puking. Another passed out cold on a bench in a bus shelter, ministered to by friends stroking her hair. She was shoeless, for some reason, and the bottoms of her feet marked up with pavement dirt.


Posted by Mike at January 1, 2005 10:53 AM